In Articulo Mortis
by Raven Silvers
Summary: [Blade II] In articulo mortis: at the moment of death. Each member of the Bloodpack, their actions and last thoughts before they died.
1. Part 1: Priest

**In Articulo Mortis  
****Part 1: Priest**

Priest had heard of the House of Pain before. It was the hottest underground nightclub in all of Prague and the surrounding areas. Every fetish, as long as it involved pain, could be satisfied here, whether you preferred humans or vampires. It didn't really matter. You could get your fix on blood, loud music and whatnot there, as long as you had no hostile intentions to the majority of the patrons.

Of course, he had never stepped inside, because the whole place smelled like a whorehouse at low tide. It was the halfbloods and the humans who frequented the club that gave it its stench, he reckoned. Or maybe it was just the halfbloods. But he had never entered before, even though he had driven past it many times. The glyph was hidden, but easily seen by vampire eyes. The blaring music was faint from ground level, but audible.

He hated the place. More like, he hated the halfbloods here.

"Half of these bastards aren't even purebloods," he had said to Asad, struggling to be heard over the music. "I'll tell you what; let's just fucking kill all o' them. Just to be sure."

Asad had shaken his head. It wasn't time for petty amusements; the survival of their race was at stake. Their targets were reapers, not halfbloods or humans, he had been told. Priest had been disappointed, but didn't say anything. They were fanned out among the crowd; he caught glimpses of the rest of the Bloodpack every so often. There Lighthammer was with Verlaine, entering what seemed to be an industrial kitchen; Chupa and Reinhardt were near the stage, and Chupa was chuckling; Snowman weaved through the crowds, but they parted as if they knew he was not a force to be reckoned with. Nyssa and the daywalker had disappeared off one of the alcoves at the side some time back, no doubt to check on the other rooms. He and Asad would have to cover those too, but that was for later.

It was a boring job. They had their guns, but there was no shooting. No reapers yet; the stench of the halfbloods would have covered up any reaper-stink. All the more reason to get rid of them, but Asad was right. No use causing panic before they had to. If he was lucky, he might be able to get some halfbloods in the process, and if Asad chided him for it later, he could always say that they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. _Too bad for them_, he decided.

Which was right about when hell broke loose.

Gunshots. (Chupa's?) Screaming. (Clubbers?) More gunshots all over the place. Reinhardt and Chupa and Asad, maybe the others. He had no idea. Priest drew his gun and smelt a horrible smell — not human, not vampire, but something in the middle. It was akin to rotten eggs...reapers. He turned and fired at the oncoming mutation. The bullets had no effect on it.

"We're under attack, there's three of them, probably more," Asad yelled into his wireless communication setup, warning the rest of the Bloodpack.

It grabbed his wrist, and he attempted to strike the thing, but it got his other wrist. They wrestled for control, but he was thrown behind the bar instead. He yelled in surprise and pain as he crashed into the glass panes that lined the back of the bar. Asad was firing, trying to bring the reaper down. The shards of glass cut into his back and the wind was knocked out of his lungs as he hit the ground. Sharp pain burned through Priest's chest and he was pretty damn sure at least two ribs were broken.

He groaned, clutching his arm. It was snapped in two places at least. He couldn't get up, his chest was fucking burning and he swore to La Magra, the minute he could get up that reaper was going to wish it hadn't even —

With a roar, the reaper came at him again. He tried to fight back as he was hauled up by his collar. Asad kept firing and most of his bullets embedded themselves into the flesh of the reaper but the mutation paid no heed. It dropped him and, grabbing Asad, lifted him clean off the ground and threw him down the length of the corridor.

Then he was up against the wall, his head being slammed against the pillar. He saw stars and black spots surrounded the edge of his vision. _Oh, shit _— Priest breathed a prayer to the blood gods in his thoughts. Not that he wouldn't die, but that if he did, then he'd take down this bastard with him.

"Priest!" Asad called for help as Priest lashed out with hands and feet. His foot found the reaper's shin and groin, but it didn't slow it down. _I will not die without a fight — _

The reaper roared again. Priest worked in a few decent left hooks, but then the reaper struck back. If he had been a human, that blow alone would have been enough to knock him out. It grabbed his wrist and with a vicious twist, dislocated the bone.

It gripped his head and he was unable to strike back as it smashed his head against the pillar. Finally he blacked out, terrified and in pain. Its jaw split open, the deadly flower of its tongue extending for him. If Priest had been conscious, he would have screamed.

* * *

_  
OhshitthethinggotmeitbitmeI'mfuckedI'mtotallyfuckedmyskinisburningeverythinginmeisburningfuckfuckfuckstopthepainstopthepainstopthepain _— 

What was happening to him? He felt like he was on fire, only that it was burning him inside out. Asad and Chupa — they were there above him, holding him down, the rest of the Bloodpack close by. Priest struggled and screamed even more, trying to relieve the pain somehow. Nothing worked.

— _stopthepainshitI'mtotallyfuckedshitdamnthethingohmygodI'm burning..._

His chin split; it hurt like hell, and he could feel his insides changing as the reaper-virus took over him.

Nyssa. Daywalker; he could smell them.

"How long since he's been bitten?" the Daywalker demanded of Asad.

"About twenty minutes," he said.

"His skin is fucking burning!" Chupa told no-one in particular. Priest writhed and tried to get away, but his best friend's grip was strong. He accidentally ripped out a lock of Priest's hair after a particularly violent twist and that made him scream even more.

Reinhardt was saying something. "...shut him the _fuck _up!"

The cold nozzle of a gun pressed against his belly, where his liver was. Chupa, his look regretful.

"Kill me now, Chupa!" he managed to beg, not wanting this to go on. He didn't want to die a reaper, he wanted to die one of the proud, noble warriors of his family line. Besides, the pain was unbearable.

"A man without fear," Chupa whispered, looking away. One hand held down his chest and the other squeezed the trigger three times.

He was still. Then suddenly the corpse of Priest, proud and noble and a prankster, came back to life. Chupa and Asad held him down, Reinhardt was screaming something, Nyssa's angry and alarmed voice. Asad, saying something to Chupa — a glint as Snowman's sword was thrown into the air, Reinhardt's hand moving. All of it a confused mass of sound and movement to him.

Then the reaper in him screamed as part of his brain was sliced off.

_Idon'twanttodielikethisIamapurebloodIamnotareaper,damnyouChupaItoldyoutokillmewhydidn'tyoufinishthejobproperlyyounevercoulddoajobrightnoteventakeapintofScottishwhiskeyandnotgetdeaddrunk —_

"Move," the daywalker barked. A boot was placed on his abdomen, where Chupa had shot him in the failed mercy killing.

"Back off, back off!" Reinhardt ordered. Chupa rolled off him as the window shattered, letting sunlight in. Reaper-Priest roared in pain as it exploded in a blazing blue.

Priest's last thought was that he had never expected to thank the daywalker for killing him.


	2. Part 2: Snowman

**In Articulo Mortis  
****Part 2: Snowman**

They had returned to the House of Pain to begin their hunt proper. The wretched place still reeked of reaper and the terror and chaos the night before. As they entered, Chupa averted his eyes from the spot where he had been forced to shoot his best friend. Snowman sympathized; Priest's death had been a big blow to all of them but to Chupa especially. After all, they had been best friends for the past two years.

Priest had been a good brother-in-arms, Snowman mused as Reinhardt came down the ladder. Chupa was rightfully angry and the rest of the Bloodpack, rightfully shaken. None of them had expected one of their own to go down so soon into their mission.

He was doing what Reinhardt had jokingly referred to as pre-battle meditation. It was a habit born from centuries of fighting with his family's forces. His legs were spread as far as his shoulders and the edge of his sword rested on the ground as he said a quick prayer to the gods, asking for courage and victory in the fight ahead. Never verbally, of course; he was mute, one of the few purebloods born with such conditions. It was a curse of his family; their genome produced mute, blind or deaf children every few generations.

The rest of the Bloodpack, Blade and Whistler gathered in the tunnel junction, each of them primed and ready to kick some reaper ass, if only to avenge their friend. Snowman finished his little ritual and waited, watching Blade. The daywalker squatted down to survey the tunnels that branched off from the junction. He stood up and wordlessly directed them to each tunnel. The lovers were with him, but he had no objections to that.

They moved down the length of the tunnel, Snowman in the lead. Every single sense he possessed was extra-sensitive and, not for the first time, he thanked the blood gods that he had been born a vampire. It was a wonder how the humans got about their daily lives without enhanced senses. How could they truly appreciate the world around them?

A screeching came from behind the corner. The Asian vampire cast a quick glance in that direction, knowing it was probably only some metal grating shifting, but wanting to make sure that that was all it was.

A scent — yes, reapers. They had been through this section of the sprawling underground network. He had his sword lifted, ready to come down in a vicious slicing motion at the slightest notice. They moved carefully along the tunnel and he became vaguely aware that Verlaine had lingered behind. It was of little consequence as long as she didn't wander too far away. Lighthammer was behind him, his mighty war hammer at the ready.

Something...something was wrong. An instinct told him that something was dreadfully wrong, even though everything seemed alright. Long ago Snowman had learnt to trust his instincts, but there were no reapers in sight. It was smelly, of course — this _was _a sewage tunnel — and decidedly quiet, but nothing was obviously wrong. Nothing moved besides them and some rats which scuttled away at their approach.

What was it? His instincts had never failed him in all of his three hundred odd years. Snowman tried to figure it out as he descended some steps. He frowned and then stopped.

_Lighthammer._

No. It couldn't be. He had only received backinjuries and Nyssa, Nyssa had said that the reaper-strain spread through the saliva of a carrier. Verlaine hadn't seen the reaper open up and infect him and he had shown no symptoms or evidence of being bitten, not like Priest, who had started his transformation almost immediately.

But the smell...the smell was unmistakable. A cross between reaper and pureblood vampire, but steadily growing stronger as fully reaper.

_It's him! _His mind screamed at him. _Lighthammer has been infected! _

He was not one to be frightened, but for the first time in many, many years, Snowman jumped at the sound of Lighthammer's war hammer's spike being released.

He made to turn, to slice the head off his friend — _Verlaine, I am truly sorry I must do this _— but he was too fast. The spike embedded itself in him and Snowman couldn't cry out in pain. He twisted, trying to get it out of him — Lighthammer was a reaper now, there _could _be no mercy — and then reaper-Lighthammer was in his face, the seam in his jaw opening up and Snowman, if he had been able to speak, would have yelled in some sort of surprise —

_No, _he struggled to say, mouthing the words. _Lighthammer! Come to your senses! Fight it! You're a pureblood, a proud noble pureblood, not one of them! _

But it was no use. He could not speak, nor was it likely reaper-Lighthammer could understand him.

He dropped his sword as the flower-tongue of a reaper sank into his neck, straight into his jugular. Snowman fought to get out of the iron grip that held him.

"Lighthammer?" Verlaine asked uncertainly. Her voice was far-off, she was still where they had left her — run! Get away! — and then footsteps, coming closer. Dark spots clouded his vision. The reaper, no longer his friend, was having a feast. He couldn't fight it anymore, he had no energy. It was no use fighting back...

He fell to the ground, as the reaper sucked all his life out of him, replacing it instead with the mutated strain of vampirism, the same condition that had given him his very abilities.

Footsteps. Verlaine had arrived to witness the horror. As Snowman's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, he urged her in his mind, albeit weakly, to have the strength and mercy to kill Lighthammer before it was too late. Or, at least, the strength to run as fast as she could.


	3. Part 3: Lighthammer & Verlaine

**In Articulo Mortis  
****Part 3: Lighthammer & Verlaine **

Lighthammer felt feverish and odd, as if he were having heartburn, except this was all over his body. The wound on his neck tingled, but he was confident he could fight off the reaper virus. He had fought off plenty of illnesses before. Besides, the reaper probably hadn't had enough contact with him to spread the virus.

They advanced through the tunnels, having left the others to pursue their own branch of the sprawling network. Verlaine's presence was unmistakable, and he took comfort that his beloved was there. He was confident she could take care of herself, so he needn't worry. Snowman was there, too, even though he seemed on edge. His training in the way of the Chinese warriors of long past had enhanced his senses further; if any one of them was to sense something was wrong, it would be him.

Water dripped somewhere, echoing loudly; rats scuttled about on the ground, fleeing from the approaching vampires. He held onto his war hammer tightly. It anchored him to here and now as his condition got worse, but he wasn't about to give in and show weakness in front of his comrades.

He was feeling worse, and he was burning up from the inside. Spontaneous combustion was fast becoming a risk. His skin felt like it could melt away, and his insides literally hurt. Internal bleeding from the encounter with the reaper? Maybe, or it could be the virus...

No. It couldn't be. He wouldn't get infected, not him. He was strong, and he hadn't turned almost immediately like Priest had. He was safe.

But he was hungry, which was odd. The Bloodpack had made sure to feed before joining the Daywalker in his crazy plan to hunt in the daylight. It was a basic rule never to go hunting on an empty stomach. He was getting hungrier, the bloodlust taking him on. His insides burned hotter like they had been set on fire and they felt _tight, _the feeling one would have when being squashed in a small lift with a dozen other people. Or the feeling one who have if they were being encased in solid bone.

He had not heard Nyssa as she had performed the autopsy on the dead reaper they had found, so he knew close to nothing about reaper anatomy. All he knew, now, was that he was very hungry; he needed blood. Now. And since there was no one else there...

Snowman had stopped. Lighthammer twisted his massive war hammer, striking before the other man could react.

* * *

Verlaine stepped lightly as she separated herself from Snowman and Lighthammer. She had heard a noise coming from somewhere else in the tunnel and she knew it was probably nothing, but it didn't hurt to check it out.

The other two went on. She glanced behind her to see where they were going, and then inspected the iron bars, peering into the inky blackness beyond. Nothing, just like she had expected. It was probably the fans or something else that proved to not to be a threat. She was about to turn around to look for the others when she heard a clatter.

She was slow in her advance, just in case something really dreadful had happened. She was nervous and afraid for her man. Snowman and Lighthammer were more than able to hold up their own in a fight, but that didn't stop her from worrying about what had happened. It wasn't like Snowman to drop something, especially his precious sword. There was no doubting that the clatter had been caused by the blade hitting the ground.

"Lighthammer?"

No response.

She gripped her gun tightly. _He can take the head off anything that tries to attack him, _she reminded herself. She had seen him do it before; the sheer brute force he commanded would have frightened her if she wasn't his lover or on the same side. _He can take the head off anything. _It became her mantra as she searched the tunnels for him.

Her confidence faltered when she smelt that smell. Reaper-stink, and it wasn't the pheromone spray that Nyssa had given them. No, this was the real deal, the reaper itself. The funny thing was how it was being carried on by Lighthammer's unique one that she was so familiar with. It twisted and mangled his slightly-spicy scent, making it into something new and foreign...but recognizable.

Her heart froze in her chest as she started to form suspicions. She didn't mind being right, but for once she sincerely hoped she was very wrong.

* * *

The vampire had just fed not long ago. He was fresh and thirst-quenching, but he wanted more. One was not enough. He had struggled, at first, but he had made quick work of the vampire. He didn't scream like the redhead had. He tried to, certainly, opened up his mouth and tried to work his non-existent vocal cords. It had failed, obviously. He hadn't made a sound as he collapsed to the ground.

He was almost done with him when the sound of footsteps echoed through the tunnels. A flash of bright red distracted him; Lighthammer dropped the vampire and stood up, stalking over to Verlaine, his mouth closing and folding back to give him some semblance of what he had looked like before.

The change had been slow and relatively painless. He hadn't known he had been becoming more and more a reaper until the very end; it had snuck up upon him like a mercenary out for the kill. It had taken him almost six hours to change fully, during which he had felt discomfort as the bone grew over his organs at an accelerated rate, but otherwise he had not felt anything. His mind didn't even have a chance to react as the reaper took over.

But now something woke up as he saw and smelt Verlaine's terror. His former self came back, fighting for control over his body, to tell her to run, run as fast as she could. To tell Nyssa and Reinhardt and the Daywalker that he had been turned, to stop him before he hurt another one of their own. Before he could hurt her. _Fight it! Fight the fucking reaper!

* * *

_

Verlaine didn't need to see any more to know her beloved was one of _them._ The reaper had infected him in the House of Pain. Normally she would have felt betrayed and upset with him, but any of that was swept away by the fear and loss she felt. For the second time within less than five years, she was about to lose someone she loved very much. First her sister and now Lighthammer.

No. He was already gone.

The confirmation came when he stepped out into the light. She knew she should be running for her life, but she couldn't move.

She finally came to her senses when he was standing in front of her, when she could see the seam running down his chin and the pallor that came with being a reaper. _I'm sorry, Lighthammer. _She could cry, but she wouldn't. She squeezed the trigger of her weapon and it emptied out God knows how many bullets into his belly. Even though her man was dead and this was just some sort of evil demon inhabiting his body, it pained her to shoot at him. It had to be one of the most difficult things she had had to do in all her two hundred and fifty years.

There was something in his eyes that made her stop. Lighthammer was still alive, and trying to fight himself. She lowered her gun, trying to see her man again, in his yellow eyes...

Lighthammer was battling against himself. He had to tell her to get away from him _now_, or else it would be too late. He tried to wrestle control back, and he partially succeeded.

"Verlaine." It was strangled, but she could hear her Lighthammer in there. He was alive, deep inside the reaper, and fighting to warn her. She thought her tears may have really spilled, but sense took over and she scrambled up the ladder; there was no other way out.

The reaper in him roared and chased after her, even though he tried to hold it back to give her time. _Run, Verlaine, run! _

She was terrified out of her mind and all she knew was that she had to get away, away from him. The ladder was rusty and wet, but she hurried up the rungs, knowing that they were her only hope. The reaper — she refused to think of him as her lover anymore, he was dead for good — grabbed her leg as she struggled with the manhole. Verlaine barely dared to look down. If she let go, she would be pulled under and the _thing _that possessed his body would devour her with all the hunger of a child without food.

He tried to get away from her, to let go of the ladder and fall back down so she could escape, but he couldn't control his body anymore. Lighthammer felt himself slipping away, to be replaced by the mindless eating machine of a reaper. He tried his damnedest to stay in control, but he couldn't. His only hope was Verlaine to get that manhole cover open and get _out of the sewers _—

_Open! Open! _She commanded the cover. The heavy disc finally budged. Her relief turned to horror as the sun's rays engulfed her in all of their white-hot fury.

Verlaine screamed. She could hear the reaper below her bellow in pain; none of them could get out of the way in time. _At least this way we can be together —_

Their ashes floated down to the ground.


	4. Part 4: Chupa

**In Articulo Mortis  
****Part 4: Chupa**

Chupa was fine with the smell and the damp of the sewers. Reinhardt was right, it was the perfect place. The Daywalker was god-knows-where with Nyssa and Asad, far away from the trio. He couldn't come running to save Whistler when the old fart started screaming for help. And when they regrouped, he could just say he wandered away and became reaper fodder. A simple half-lie, because if the old man wasn't dead by the time he was done with him — and maybe even if he _was _— the reapers would be attracted by the stink of their pheromones.

"We're trying to attract them, not scare them off," Reinhardt said, grabbing the barrel of Whistler's gun and flipping the UV filter back onto the light.

The old man was livid. He hadn't been happy about teaming up with the Bloodpack in the first place, and he especially hated Chupa and Reinhardt. Chupa had good reason to hate him too, but he had to keep himself in check in front of the Daywalker. Nyssa would have his hide if he endangered the so-called "truce" between the Vampire Nation and Blade.

"Well, some of us can't see in the dark, you fucking nipple-head!" Whistler yelled at Reinhardt as he moved off. Chupa yanked the heat-vision goggles off his rig and handed them gruffly to him.

"Bifocals, grandpa. Try to keep up." He grumbled something in reply as he went on ahead.

They went some distance, eventually finding themselves in a large junction, where the tunnel they had been following stopped and joint with a few others. They were knee-deep in murky water when Chupa chose to make his move. "Let's do this."

A subtle nod from Reinhardt showed his approval. Chupa went to put down the bag of UV grenades while Reinhardt grabbed the goggles from Whistler. "Hey hillbilly."

"The fuck you doing?" he demanded. Chupa came up to him, glad he could finally do _something _that would make him happy.

"Ain't nobody here except you and us, buttercup," he growled. He grabbed him by the front of his jacket and threw him over his shoulder with a yell. _This is for Priest, bastard, for my best friend. _"We lose a partner, and Blade loses one!" A savage kick to the gut, and a cry from Whistler as the other Bloodpack member threw the goggles into the water.

He advanced on him. He couldn't see what the old man was doing, but he looked like he was fumbling with something. A gun, maybe? He could easily unarm him, no problem. He was bigger and younger, and definitely pissed off.

Reinhardt picked up the grenade-bag and stepped past them. "I'll leave you two lovebirds time to yourselves."

He took great satisfaction in hearing something crack in Whistler's jaw as he hit him again. Reinhardt had kept his end of the promise: Chupa would get his revenge with no intervention or interruption. Chupa reckoned he was allowed to do because Reinhardt, even though he could be an asshole, felt for Priest's death. The redhead had been an inaugural part of the Bloodpack; it felt different without him.

The way Blade had just _killed _him, in cold blood...it was typical of the Daywalker. The murderer of humonis nocturne, single-handedly eradicating dozens of their kind. Priest wasn't going to be another number. He was _Priest, _his best friend. He'd promised his friend to kill him before he became a reaper, but he'd failed. The Daywalker had stolen that from him. Whistler would pay for that.

Some of vicious kicks and punches, and Whistler was down again. Chupa loved the feeling of being able to beat up someone; it'd been too long since he had the chance to do so with his fists. With the Bloodpack it was always guns, swords or giant war hammers. A pity, because Chupa and Priest had both been able to throw mean right hooks.

"No one gets away with messing with one of us," Chupa informed him, punctuating his point with a another kick to his gut. "We're like the fucking mob, man. You don't mess with us and expect us not to fuck with you back." The other man made to fight back, but he slugged him and Blade's father figure went down with a grunt. "Your Count Chocula took Priest out, I'm just returnin' the favor." Whistler groaned in response as he tried to get up.

Damn, he hadn't had so much fun in a long time. This was his chance to get back at the Daywalker for all that he'd done to the Vampire Nation and to Priest. He didn't like the hillbilly either, so it was a plus. He would've taken the Daywalker on directly, but he was no match for Blade. He knew Nyssa and Asad would never have allowed him to touch Whistler or the punk; they really thought the Bloodpack needed Blade's help to get rid of the reapers. If you asked him, they could do that perfectly well on their own, thank you very much.

"I told Blade, dammnit," Whistler coughed. "I toldhim you assholes would fuck us over the first chance you —"

He snarled loudly. Whistler stood up, and he slugged him again. He grabbed the base of a big hydraulic wheel behind him for support but slumped down anyway. Chupa went to get his gun — it was time to finish this.

"What the hell is this?" He held up the pheromone spray. It was empty. "You trying to stink me to death, old man?"

Nyssa's voice came over his headset. _"Chupa, get out of there now!"_ He ignored her. He'd finish him off, and then he would regroup. Whistler had the heat vision goggles again; he must've found it floating in the water. _He's not gonna need it anymore. _

"_All units, regroup, regroup!"_ Blade called into his ear. Chupa ignored him too. What he couldn't ignore, though, was the reaper that jumped him.

He was able to throw the first one off, and he got a pretty good hit on the second...but then they just kept coming. He struggled —_ shit I'm fucking **screwed**! _— but there must have been a dozen of them — _get off me! _— and they were hungry — _No! I won't end up like Priest! _— and then he knew he was a goner when he felt the tongue-stalk of the reapers latch onto his skin.

He screamed.


	5. Part 5: Reinhardt

**In Articulo Mortis  
****Part 5: Reinhardt**

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. _

Things weren't going as planned. The shit had hit the fan, hard. Damaskinos had finally got his Daywalker blood, and Reinhardt had gotten the chance to avenge his comrades on Whistler. Or, at least, that was what was supposed to happen.

He was pissed off now. Really pissed off. He didn't care that the abomination of the pureblood lineages was loose in the complex, because he knew that Nomak would go straight for his father and half-sister. He wasn't concerned about fighting off the reaper, though it might become a problem later. He wanted Blade.

Of course, he hadn't been happy when first told his team would have to work with him. His displeasure did not abate when, one by one, he saw them killed. Murdered.

He had no love for some of his teammates, but they'd gone through a lot together. He owed them a lot. Daywalker's death, preferably a slow and painful one, was probably the least he could do.

The fact that he had lost half his face didn't help his mood, either. The wounds (and, effectively, half his face) stung still. He had hoped killing Whistler and then taking his blood would have helped, but his plan had been foiled when the old man had managed to get away.

He prowled the corridors, following the scent of the old man's blood and scowling the whole way. The things he was going to do to Whistler would make him wish Blade had not rescued him at all. The strobe lights were going crazy as the whole building went into emergency mode. Doors leading outside were being locked down, and Reinhardt knew that. They would have nowhere to run.

_Damnit, Blade! _He thought, glowering. _It's my right to kill you! I let the old prick have you because he needed your blood. This time you're mine._ He held no more regard for what the ancient vampire thought or said anymore. Blade was his, simple as that.

Hell, after tonight, he doubted the old fart would even have any more power over the men. Without Asad he would be significantly weakened in his authority.

He had a hunch as to where Whistler would bring the daywalker to. He was lying in wait when the old man struggled in with his charge. He loaded the shotgun casually — ironically, the same stake-loaded one that he'd been given at the House of Pain — as if this was no more than target practice. When Whistler came into view, he fired. The bullets ricocheted off the steel railing, but he was rewarded when he heard a grunt as they fell. The high and mighty Daywalker was fading fast, and it brought him great satisfaction to inflict some more damage.

"Go on, kid," Whistler was saying. Reinhardt rolled his eyes. Trust humans to get sentimental when they knew they were about to die. "Go!"

He watched as Blade struggled to drag himself to the edge of the giant tap that fed the blood vat, biding his time. He wanted a clean shot as he circled the edge of the pool. He was not about to admit it, but his hands were shaking. The nerve damage he had sustained during the UV grenade explosion had been extensive, or so he had been told. His right arm was almost completely charred to the bone, but with blood and rest he had healed nicely. The muscles in his arm were still new and mostly unused; it wasn't like he had planned on lifting a gun so soon.

Another one of his plans gone out the window.

But this one, he was sure, would unfold nicely.

When Blade was at the end, he fired and was pretty damn sure he hit when the Daywalker came tumbling down. He took a few more shots just to cause more damage, busting the glass tubes as he did so. He didn't care.

The bullet shells hit the ground as Blade gave a spectacular splash when he hit the pool of blood. _Hasta la vista, baby, _Reinhardt grinned. He picked up the sword, which had fallen when he had first shot Whistler. He was going to use it to kill Blade's father figure, just like he had planned.

Maybe his day wasn't so bad after all.

He sauntered away, knowing that he could take his time in killing Whistler. He was going to enjoy it, since the other man couldn't get away.

Reinhardt stopped as he heard the single footstep behind him. He turned, curious. _Fuck me. _Blade was alive, and he here had been thinking everything was fine.

Oh, well. At least he would have the satisfaction of killing the Daywalker again. Armed guards filed into the room, stopping just behind him. Blade working the cricks out of his neck and soldiers as Reinhardt watched, bored.

The former leader of the Bloodpack turned slightly, indicating that the guards should go and take a bite out of the very nice cake. They ran forward, electric stun-batons at the ready.

He watched as Blade took them out, with vicious kicks and punches. He counted a broken pelvis, two smashed skulls, at least three broken noses and one ruptured liver before he decided it wasn't worth the effort. _Fuck me sideways. _

As Blade ruthlessly dispensed of Damaskinos' finest after the Bloodpack, Reinhardt found himself almost wishing that he was a pureblood and part of the Bloodpack. It made him angry at himself that he was thinking such things; after all, Blade was the one they were after. It would have defeated the whole purpose of the Bloodpack if the Daywalker had been on their side all along, and Reinhardt would be out of a job.

"Get in there!" he yelled at the replacement guards, taking his anger out on them. They were merely peons and he had no doubt in his mind that they were going to be massacred. Blade ended with a move that he'd seen on a wrestling show once. The poor guard's back was broken, as was the glass panels that made up a floor.

He made a grunt that might have signified either approval, amazement or boredom — more likely a mix of all three — as Blade sprung up in front of him. Casually he put down the gun. Blade was no match for him now. After that wipeout with the guards, even the Daywalker had to be exhausted. He wasn't a threat anymore.

"Well," he started, "As my daddy told me before he killed my mom: If you want anything done right, you've got to do it yourself." And it was true, he reflected. He'd said the same thing to his father before he killed him. "He also said," he drawled on, as he gave the sword a few experimental twirls, hoping to catch the Daywalker by surprise when he suddenly brought it up.

Blade caught the blade on the flat sides with his palms. Reinhardt had thought it was going to be a piece of cake, but he struggled to get the sword free. He grunted and his whole body shook with the effort, but it was Blade who was in control. It was Blade who brought the sword up and away from him.

"Can you blush?" he finished, and before he knew it the sword was up in the air. Reinhardt watched it go, but it was pretty obvious Blade was going to get it.

He saw a glint of metal and heard the ringing of steel cutting through air, and then something very sharp and very cold was slicing through his head, his chest and then the rest of his body...

_...fuck. _

What was once Dieter Reinhardt, proud leader of the Vampire Nation's finest warriors, fell to the ground in impressive twin explosion of ashes.

_**The End**_


End file.
